Who Are You, When You Are At Home?
by lbc
Summary: House has had a very bad day and a fight with Wilson. This is my first House story so don't expect much. Definitely slash
1. Chapter 1

Title: Who Are You, When You're At Home?

By: lbc

The slender but scruffy figure of Dr. Greg House slumped into one of his large overstuffed chairs. He had been home only a few minutes. His leg was killing him, but since his acknowledgement of his addiction to the painkiller several weeks ago, he had been trying to stop "popping" them without, at least, thinking first.

It had been a very long. They had all been long days, lately, and he couldn't blame it on Cuddy or that Spawn of Satan, Vogler. Perhaps, that wasn't fair, but Greg House, diagnostician extraordinaire wasn't really too worried about being fair. Life wasn't fair either and never had been, and it sure wasn't fair when a person who was friendless lost his only friend.

House wiped his forehead as his nerves tingled and the pain began to seep through his entire body. He told himself to wait a few more minutes. Don't succumb so quickly, after all it had been (looking at his watch) only been three hours since his last fix. The need at that time had been truly necessary he had just had a confrontation with Vogler and then with his nerves still raw, he had argued with Wilson.

No, argue wasn't right. Can you argue with someone if they don't say a word? The look on Wilson's face had ended the argument as he walked away, House had to admit to himself. I sure lost that one.

His unshaven chin dropped to his chest as he pondered the word, need. Need I don't need anybody. Everybody knows I don't even need to see a patient to do a diagnosis. I've spent the last 20 years of my life not needing anyone, and now what have I done I've alienated the only person who . . . really means something to me. God, how stupid can I be?"

House clenched his hand into a fist, fighting the need for the Vicodin. I'm a diagnostician, and I can't even decide if the pain I have now is worse than the pain of three hours ago. House sat there contemplating degrees of pain. Finally, his tired mind admitted what he had truly been fighting Of course, I hurt more now than I did three hours ago, but is it my leg that hurts so much or is it my non-existent heart?

House raised his head, looking around the living room of his condo. The grand piano was like an old friend. He had hauled it to New Jersey when he had accepted the position eight years ago. Wilson had helped him move in that day. He had even followed House to Princeton-Plainsboro when the Oncology position had opened up. I've never really asked him why he did that? God knows he should have been grateful to finally get rid of me.

House looked at his watch once again. It was now five minutes later than his previous check. Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut? Why can't I just accept that he's married? Why have I been gloating albeit secretly that his marriage seems to be on the rocks? Why can't I just be honest with . . . myself?

It was getting dark outside. Darkness or bright sunshine didn't really make any difference to the world's greatest diagnostician; House laughed at himself. Everybody knows you're a bastard and bad tempered. You don't really think your three ducklings really admire you, do you?

The images of Chase, Cameron, and Foreman appeared in House's mind. The narc, the whiner, and the prig not a pretty picture was it? Why had it been so difficult to comply with Cuddy's edict to fire one of them? None of them meant a hill of beans to him. They were there to learn, to work and . . . do whatever I want, this isn't a popularity contest. But why . . . why is Wilson there? With his credentials, he could be a consultant anywhere in the US? Why?

Looking at his watch, House realized that better than a half hour had passed. He reached into his pocket and found the plastic pill bottle that contained . . . relief . . . relief from the agonizing pain of dead muscle tissue. There were so few left. How humiliating it had been when he had ranted and raved at the pharmacist when he had run out. Popping the Vicodin into his mouth, he felt the relief almost immediately although he admitted to himself that his mind was telling him the pain was less, not his leg.

Looking around the room, he tried to get up to go to the kitchen to fix . . . "something". It wasn't fun anymore to experiment with various cuisines now that Jay wasn't here. Funny, nothing seemed like fun anymore unless Jay was here. The tired face smiled as he remembered the overwhelming feeling of comfort and ease that he'd felt that night they drove the corvette through town.

Suddenly, his tired blue eyes saddened as the memory of James Wilson's hurt came thundering back into his mind. Why couldn't I have just kept my mouth shut? I know I'm a moody, sharp tongued bastard, but why did I have to lash out at Jay?

House's body was telegraphing all sorts of messages to him. His leg was feeling better, but the rest of him was not. He had no use for food; he had no use for booze; music sometimes soothed him, but nothing would do this time. He needed to see Wilson; to talk to him; to . . . apologize, but why would Jay even think of seeing him?

Limping more than usual; his cane was the only thing holding him up. Suddenly, the door buzzer sounded. His mind and body grimaced with the thought of facing anyone. Walking slowly, in hopes that the person wouldn't wait around, the slender figure opened the door. James Wilson, exhausted, angry, hesitant, stood there.


	2. Chapter 2

Who Are You, When You're At Home? (part 2)

House stood staring for several seconds at his long time friend. James Wilson had been his friend since college, but the man who stood just on the threshold of his condo was a stranger. No light of pleasure lurked in those dark eyes. His Jay was not here to forgive or forget.

Finally, Wilson held out his hand. In it was a pill bottle – the word, Vicodin could clearly be seen.

"You forgot these."

House closed his eyes for a brief second, seeing the image of himself, rushing (if it was possible for him to rush) out of the hospital after his confrontation with his friend. He had forgotten everything even his new supply of Vicodin. He had so few pills remaining, it would have been a very long night if . . . if Wilson hadn't cared enough to bring them to him.

In a voice so quiet, it was barely above a whisper, House replied, "Come in."

Seeing that Wilson was not going to, House stepped back from the doorway, whispering softly, "Please."

Even then House thought the barrier between them might have been too great, but finally the handsome younger man entered the condo. Behind Wilson's back, House closed his eyes again and took a deep sigh of relief.

Wilson suddenly turned and held out the pills once again. "You forgot these," Wilson repeated. Hesitantly House took the pill bottle from him.

"Thanks."

As Wilson handed over the pills, his eyes revealed something, but House wasn't quite sure what. At one time, House would have sworn he could read the man's very thoughts . . . they had been that close, but now the man with the cane wasn't sure. That in itself was a change. For so long he had been sure . . . about almost everything. Almost twenty years ago now, he had made a decision, and now it was back again wreaking horrible ramifications. He didn't know what was going to happen, but he had to try and repair the rift that had developed between himself and his only true friend.

"I want to apologize for what I said."

Wilson's head flew up as he stared into House's blue eyes. "Oh really, and is that going to make everything okay?"

House was shaken. Wilson hadn't spoken like that to him in almost twenty years. The venom . . . or was it hurt . . . took his breath away. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

Wilson laughed a harsh laugh. "Now isn't that great? You're the one who destroyed everything with your demands . . . your fears and yet I get the past thrown at me. God, why do I put up with it?"

Within seconds, the younger man was out the door that had been slammed so soundly that it was still reverberating.

As House came out of the stunned shock that had hit him, he barely noticed the pain radiating through his hand. He had been leaning on his cane, holding it so tight that the blood had ceased to circulate . . . and yet that pain was still not as bad as the pain he was feeling deep in his interior. The agony that he had felt when he had suffered the infarction years before had dominated his whole body; his very will to live, but the pain he was feeling now inflicted a different kind of pain one of desolation, abandonment, and loss not of mobility, but of the very essence of his friendship with James Wilson.

Suddenly, House's belly could stand it no longer. It reviled him as Wilson's words had called him to task. He barely made it to the toilet before a wave of nausea overcame him. For the next few minutes his body repudiated him and everything that he had eaten in the past few hours. It also regurgitated his hard won Vicodin before its pain killing relief could be completed.

House hung onto consciousness but little else. He didn't know how he had gotten onto the floor by the bowl. The smell was horrendous, but he barely noticed it. He had fought against clinic duty because he didn't care for dealing with patients, but this encounter with the despair of loss, shook him to his depths. He had lost Jay twenty years before; he had accepted it, why was he behaving so anally now?

Pain from his crippled leg (how often he had refused to acknowledge that concept) shot through him. He was now on the floor, wallowing in smells reminiscent of the best three day binge, with pain wracking his body. He needed his Vicodin, but the bottle had disappeared as he had struggled to reach the porcelain refuge. What was he going to do?

Obscurely the thought entered his mind . . . too bad I don't have a phone in the john like the rich boys do. He began to laugh then a new wave of pain shot through his leg. Finally . . . finally, relief came to Greg House . . . it arrived on the swift footed charger in black as oblivion overwhelmed the stricken man.

End of Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Who Are You, When You're At Home? (Conclusion)

Even though Greg House had his eyes closed, he could feel the presence of James Wilson. Perhaps it was the aroma of the handsome man - - an aroma that House had smelled many times before, through sweat, through semen, and through ecstasy, but why was the man here, now? Wilson had stormed out . . . minutes, hours . . . before - - why was he here now?

"Open your eyes, House. I know you're conscious."

Carefully, one of House's blue eyes opened, looking into his friend's face and promptly received a cool washcloth in the face. House attempted to sit up but dizziness forced him to lie down again. "Thanks for the wake up. What are you doing here?"

"Yeah, well, I've been asking myself that question. Found you lying on the floor, unconscious. From the smell of your bathroom, I would say that you've lost most of the Vicodin that you ever took."

House looked at the younger man silently then asked again, "Why are you here? And even more important, why aren't I in pain, am I dead?"

A strange looked entered the brown eyes, "No, you're not dead; I gave you a mild painkiller to keep you going since you lost the Vicodin. Holding up his medical bag, Wilson continued, "Just another friendly visit from your family doctor."

House attempted to smile, but his mind and body were badly depleted by the recent events in the bathroom. His stomach hurt from the constant heaving; even his throat hurt from the violent actions. All he could find in himself was, "Thanks, I think."

Wilson looked at him for a moment then nodded. "Well, now that you're alive again, I'll be going. You think you can clean up after yourself?"

House raised his super enlarged head too quickly and regretted it. He whispered, "Jamie, don't."

Wilson whirled around to face the seated House, his face full of anger and pain, "I told you to never call me that again."

"Sorry. I'm just not thinking too well right now. After all for more than eight years that's what I called you."

Wilson's lips hardened, "Yeah, well that all stopped the day you ended it, so don't do it again. How much do you think I can stand? Picking you up off the floor, undressing you, and cleaning you up was quite enough for one day; I don't need any more."

Those words rang a bell in House's dull mind. He finally noticed that he was lying on the bed, without any clothes on and only parts of his body covered.

House ran his left hand over his face, "Sorry, guess that was a really dumb move, huh?"

Wilson wasn't sure which dumb move House was referring to so he kept quiet.

Suddenly a towel hit House in the face. Opening his blue eyes slowly, he looked at James Wilson, his one-time lover and the man who had meant everything . . . and still did . . . to him. "You tryin' to tell me something?"

"Yeah, you stink. Clean yourself up. I'll clean up the bathroom, and then I gotta get going."

A deep sadness entered the troubled blue eyes. In a voice barely above a whisper, House said, "Well, it can't be wifey expecting you, so I suppose it's my company that disturbs you."

A flicker of anger entered the dark eyes then the look was shuttered and barriers were thrown up. "Look, House. I admit I made a mistake marrying on . . . the rebound." House's raised eyebrows stopped Wilson for a moment then he continued, "All right . . . all right . . . I made mistakes with all my marriages, but what did you leave me . . . I . . . wanted a career too and some . . . normalcy in my life." Wilson stopped giving his friend a frozen look then he mumbled something that sounded very much like, "And I didn't get it."

Wilson's eyes dropped to the floor, his shoulders slouching. He raised his head finally, rubbing his face. "God, I am so tired. I would like to go to sleep and not wake up for a thousand years."

House pushed himself up on his elbows, using sheer willpower to hold back the dizziness and nausea he still felt. A deep feeling of pain swept through his body which had nothing to do with dead muscles or an infarction - - no, this was a pain of his own making - - and the aftermath of that pain was standing in front of him, suffering as well.

"Jamie, I'm sorry; I was wrong." Relieved that Wilson did not lash out at him again for his use of the beloved name, he continued. "All those years we were together were the happiest I've ever known. Waking up in your arms or next to you filled my days and nights; I wanted so badly for it to continue, but interests just didn't coincide. We knew that it would happen as soon as you became interested in Oncology and me in Diagnostics. Maybe we should have ended it earlier, but . . ."

Wilson's face turned hard; his voice cold as icicles, "Excuse me, Dr. House, but we didn't choose to end it; YOU DID, and then you made me the fall guy because I went my separate way and . . . tried . . . tried to make a separate life."

Anger flared momentarily in the blue eyes, his scruffy face mirrored the pain in Wilson's eyes. Without stopping to think, typical House bluntness caused him to voice his thoughts. "Yeah, then why are you here in New Jersey now? Following me to New Jersey sure guaranteed your separate life, didn't it?"

Wilson's face turned red as if embarrassed, but rapidly changed to fury. Shaking his head in bewilderment, Wilson's next words froze House to the core. "Damn you, you bastard! How typical of your ego to assume that I couldn't stand to be away from you, so I followed you. I was offered Jamieson's position when he retired, because I am a damned good doctor and my reputation is every bit as good as yours, except in your eyes, of course."

House dropped his blue eyes to the bed cover. The fury on Wilson's face and the silence in the room seemed to magnify House's whispered, "I know."

"Yeah, well, you sure as hell don't act like it. I loved you so much; it wasn't just sex for me, but you had your career, and being with me might have loused that up. You never even asked me what I thought or what was I willing to do; you made the decision for both of us because 'it was for the best.'" Wilson's spot-on imitation of House's voice replicated House's sanctimonious statement that had been thrown out years before. Wilson took a deep breath and then continued, "Well, I'm proud of what I do at Princeton-Plainsboro, and I won't apologize for taking the position, although God knows it might have been easier, if I hadn't."

Wilson turned as if to leave the bedroom, but stopped when he heard, "Don't go . . . please."

Wilson continued to stand with his back towards the bed; his left hand clenched in a fist; the right holding so tightly onto the handle of his doctor's bag that his knuckles were white. House tried to get to his feet but discovered that his cane was no where around. "Jay, I want to talk, please."

Wilson raised his head, but refused to turn, "Will you stop calling me that?"

"I . . . I thought that's what we agreed on; you won't let me call you Jamie anymore."

"Wilson . . . just call me Wilson; you call everybody by their last name - - why not me?"

"Because . . . because you mean so much more to me than anyone else. I . . . can't just treat you like another colleague . . . I can't."

Now whirled around in a obvious fury, "Why can't you; that's what you made me that day in June almost 20 years ago." Wilson flung back his head, looking towards the ceiling, "God what a fool I was. You really had the silver tongue back then, didn't you? We both could have gotten jobs as strippers as fast as we undressed each other."

House's face looked haunted as he remembered their exquisite moments together. The images played through his mind as he felt again the happiness of that time. "Yeah, we stripped fast but loved slowly."

"Loved . . . loved . . . come off it; you never once said that you loved me. It was great sex to you and that was all; that's why you knew what was best for you, at the end." Wilson's voice broke at that moment; he was totally overwhelmed by the emotions that ran rampant through his body.

House carefully stepped towards his friend. Without a cane, he felt wobbly and fragile, but he was determined to make his friend listen. Invading Wilson's space, House breathed a sigh of relief that the younger man did not step out of his range.

House reached out with both arms and gently circled the man's waist with a loving embrace. House's lips moved close to Wilson's right ear. "Jamie, I loved you so much; I almost died when you left. I still love you and always will. I was wrong. You should have punched me in the nose and kept me in bed until I recovered my senses."

Wilson cleared his throat, saying nothing, refusing to look at House. After a moment, he felt a gentle kiss on the edge of his ear and then House's scruff from his beard rub against his cheek. Confusion fought with contentment over the feelings that House was arousing in him. Wilson would have sworn that his more intimate feelings for House had all been burned away in the fires of separation and abandonment, but then he had to admit the truth to himself.

In a voice filled with emotion, Wilson whispered, "I was working out in California when I got word about your infarction. All the way across the country, I kept thinking that if you were still alive when I got there, I would tell you how I felt about you, but you . . . were in such pain . . . you could hardly speak. I just wanted to take you in my arms and hold you, instead I just sat by your side."

House laid his head on the strong shoulder. "I don't remember much about that time. My life seemed to be filled with such pain, but having you there helped me to hold on. When you left, I couldn't tell the difference between the pain in my heart and my leg. I want us to be together . . . in whatever way, you can agree to. If its friendship only that's okay, but I need you even more now than I needed you twenty years ago. I pushed you away then; I can't do it again."

House stood back to look into his friend's eyes. Affection loomed in Wilson's eyes but there was still a hesitancy, "Greg, we need to get it right this time. When I thought I was going to lose you, I decided that I needed you in my life so it was easy to decide to come to Princeton-Plainsboro, but now with Vogler and . . . Cuddy; I just don't know. We've both done things in our past we're not bragging about, but we need to take this slow and be honest with each other."

House felt his body giving out on him after the emotional and physical roller coaster he had been on. He nodded in agreement at Wilson's words. "Right, I . . . need to sit down; I need you beside me. You got plans for the rest of today?"

"Well, I think Cuddy was slightly suspicious when I called you in sick, and I told her that I might be coming down with the same thing, but the bottom line is . . . no, I don't have anything planned."

House smiled his first smile, in a very long time. His blue eyes twinkled with the affection that he reserved for one person only - - the man, standing in front of him.

"Good, then let's say that as of now, Dr. Wilson; you are unavailable for consultation."

Wilson smiled shyly then rapidly removed his clothes. The two men got into House's full-sized bed together with House propped up against Wilson's chest. Wilson became to nibble and nuzzle the alluring neck and ear region of his friend, sometimes murmuring gentle words into the available ear.

A soft purring sound soon emanated from Greg House. Drawing Wilson's two arms around his waist and pulling them tight, House smiled and whispered, "You do have a really great bedside manner, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson smiled although that was unseen by House, but he heard the words that were so full of meaning, "Have to, don't I; can't let everybody at the hospital think that you're what all doctors are like."

With that, Dr. James Wilson sealed Dr. Gregory House's lips with a kiss, to forestall any sarcastic retorts.

The End 


End file.
